A story normal starts at the beginning. If the teller is good, or has Nolan as a surname, it can start at the end and jump around enough that most people think they have just had to learn Trig to understand what happened.
<insert bond movie story>
As for me, being ADHD means everything is 180. I am sitting here, in an empty four bedroom house, above a shop on a main road. I am four years into my recovery and at my journeys end. None of what I say is meant to make me out a martyr, hero, victim. It is just laid down one word after another, in an attempt to provide an objective view of a subjective world.
I have spent almost everyday since I moved into here, back in March 2015, trying to get help and support in order to return to a life, get back to being a provider and stop taking money from people whom don’t seem to have the ability that I do to earn a pound.
Using the skills I picked up during my sales adventures, I started asking for help from the people on the ground. Once I had worked out what they could offer, but for some reason didn’t seem to do so, I did my research. I read up on the laws and local polices and found out what all the bottom lines where on all the things that I thought I needed help with. I then turned to those at the top of each of the organisations and asked them to provide, as that is what was supposed to happen.
I ended up in communication with the CEO of Kingston Upon Thames Council, the Chief Inspector of Kingston Met and the Head of CMHT (the side of the NHS that deals with mental health issues).
I am sitting here over a year later with multiple reports of alleged Abuse, as defined by The New Care Act. Reports of Hate Crimes lodged, domestic abuse recognised and an Alert raised. These alleged abuse claims range from private individuals right up to some of those people in the paragraph before.
If I had spent the last year twiddling my thumbs I would be less disappointed now. I still don’t have the most basic of things set up, like a personal budget. I don’t get to see any doctors. I am still refused a diagnoses for the PTSD I believe I have from where someone tried to kill me in 2014. I still don’t have the means to feed myself.
If it wasn’t for being raised by the Trotter family all my life, when the landlord turned up yesterday to say that if I didn’t pay £3,000 immediately he would be on the phone before leaving to a locksmith to have me removed from the house.
Thanks to Del-boy I have managed to charm myself until Monday to come up with a months rent to stay here until the end of July, so long as I sign a document drawn up by the Landlord stating that I will then leave without a problem and without taking them to Court.
Give me three months, give me three weeks – I cant start a task until the last hour. And so I now have three days to prove what my initial research is showing to be illegal by asking me to sign that document, then find a way to stay here. Not that I am looking to do so for free. Far from it. I a pay my way in this word, also for a few others it seems to.
Why do I think what he is asking is wrong? After all, he did go from his initial hard man stance to being generous enough to give me some time. It was nothing more than him turning down my offer of transferring him the rent money before signing the document. A landlord turning down someone offering him a months rent? Alarm bells started to ring.
To google I turned, as one does to find the secrets of this world out. A much harder task considering that the two lads whom where living here decided to take the router with them when they left. Silly boys, as if something like that could stop me.
After all, just a couple of weeks ago all three of us had agreed to sign a new contract for six months for this place. My Care Worker had done extra well in getting Housing Benefit on the case for my share. The landlord had even offered, of his own free will, to send a letter saying I lived here and paid rent.
And then that thing happened. The thing that I do. The thing that I warn every one I get past a certain point of knowing. At sometime I am going to do something to you. You will think, what they hell has he just done that for, who does he think he his, I thought we where friends. When this happens all I can ask of you, please, is that you ask me about it a day or two later. I will then give you an answer. Once again you could think, how stupid does he really think I am, what is his trying to do to me? Or you could take it as it is meant. As a stupidly naive, silly basic mistake, something that a ten year old might do, with no negativity or maliciousness meant. Or you could do what EVERY one does, and walk out of my life never to be seen again.
After living with me for over a year, it finally happened to the two guys whom have been keeping me alive, Conor and Moe. With Moe is turned into open hostility, enough that the abuse claim is now with the Police. Conor, he took the other route people take. Keep pretending they are still my friend, until a chance appears to disappear.
When Moe thought himself to be in trouble, he called up my Care Worker and told him that in two weeks time him and Conor where going to move out, and the landlord would be over the next day to change the locks. During those two weeks, neither of them told me a thing. It took a week for my Worker to get around to telling me. It took a minute for me to be calling the Landlord up to sort this out.
Not just to sort out staying on else becoming Homeless, but also having to deal with the both of them doing all that they could to make sure that I couldn’t stay on here by myself. Both of them knowing that it would make me Homeless. Both knowing what that process means to me, self harm and nowhere to live. Both knowing that my only option was to drive to Wales, living off the land in my tent and continue to battle Kingston Upon Thames for somewhere suitable for my issues to live.
Lets stop for a moment and lets see who Conor and Moe are, and what they mean to me. Lets give some emotion weight to whats gone, and whats yet to come.
Around March 2015 I was evicted from the two bedroom flat that I jointly owned. Hold on, lets jump back a bit further to give some meaning to this.